


The Shadow Dance

by Somedrunkpirate



Series: The Devil's Death [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mythology, Angst, M/M, Mythology - Freeform, References to near death situations, dark themes, references to suicidal thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 23:19:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11218317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: It leaves no scars. Only faces that shift and shimmer in the dark.Death visits Eames many times. He escapes many more.No more.No more.





	The Shadow Dance

**Author's Note:**

> This is _not_ a continuation for the previous fic in the series and it has a very different tone. Heed the tags! 
> 
> It's a variation on a theme.

When Eames was four, he met Death for the first time.

Death was the burn, the flames dancing around him, the cigarette Mum had lit and then dropped to the dry floor. To this day, no one is sure if she did it on purpose or not.

There are still scars on Eames’ legs, ones that grew with him as he flew past the years. They’re almost invisible now, only shiny in the sunlight, when he doesn’t cover them with his pants.

The second time Eames was visited by Death, it was in the shape of a river, of a rushing stream trying to steal his air away. His dog, Vicky, had jumped into the water, trying to catch a fish. Eames tried to save her, but after coughing up the water from his lungs, Vicky was lying lifeless on the ground next to him. Death had been content with her soul, for that day.

The third time it was a knife in his gut, a fight at his school. First there were only fists, only hard knuckles against faces, broken jaws and bloody pride. But then, the boy twisted his hand, and there was a flare of pain, black spots, and a blurry image. Eames didn’t remember his face, after.

The fourth and fifth were his own damn fault, and he tries not to think about them too much.

He ignores the sting in his leg on a rainy day.

The sixth was on his 19th birthday, on his first mission, his first time playing the game of war.

He learned that it wasn’t a game that day, that it was real, and that it hurt. His shoulder ached for years after. Only a millimeter and he would have been lost. Death came close this time, but Eames knew how it went by then. The throbbing, the white light, the shadow of a face beckoning him. He knew how to turn back and run. Death couldn’t catch him when he ran.

When Eames was 16, his girlfriend told him he was like a puppy. “Adorable, overenthusiastic, and needy for care.” She’d said it as if it was desirable to be a puppy; it wasn’t. She broke up with him a week later.

16-year-old Eames didn’t want to be seen as a puppy, unable to be independent or subdued. He didn’t want to be adorable, useless, and ultimately shitting himself because he didn’t know how to do things on his own.

So he changed, like the flick of the switch.

He dropped out of school, spent his time roaming around the city like a stray cat. Elusive, mysterious, independent and _dangerous_. He learned pickpocketing, the best places to steal bikes, cars, jewelry boxes. He ran his first cons at seventeen, pretending to be a valet and driving off with the cars, selling old ladies company and emptying their houses, sneaking in at night. He sold his new things through his new contacts, his new friends.

They nicknamed him “The Cat” and Eames thought he was happy like this.

He wasn’t.

Being something he was not became exhausting, pretending to think a certain way became damaging. So he disappeared again, made a fresh identity for himself, and joined the army.

In the army, he could manage who he wanted to be more carefully. Cheery, but skilled. Independent, but social. Charming, but deceptively trustworthy. He was better, became better.

But there was still something wrong.

After his sixth meeting with Death, he was put on medical leave. Eames protested this. Loudly. He might not be able to go back to the front lines, but he refused to be useless and alone. So they offered another option: experimental research. Eames took the bait.

The first year on Somnacin – he had to dream everyday single bloody day – blurred together like a dream itself. Eames died so many times that he became convinced that Death must be fake in reality too. Waking up is overrated, the pain lingers. It doesn’t take long before Eames stares down the barrel of his gun, convincing himself to pull the trigger. The seventh time’s the charm. It’s not how the idiom goes, but it works for Eames. Everything to escape _this_. The dreams they give them are unstable and atrocious. They are torture techniques, loyalty tests, brainwash experiments. Eames lost himself a long time ago in those dreams. He wishes he could forget.

But he can’t forget. He can’t pull the trigger. Death stays in the back of his mind, stalking him through his preparations, through his escape. He runs away with a PASIV and enough Stomacin to last him a lifetime in the underworld. Because it wasn’t all blood and horror and pain. There were little hints, little flickers of peace that go above one caused by a real bullet through his head. Little facets of hope Eames wants to build on.

The seventh time Death visited him still hasn’t really stopped, despite it being years since he came along.

Forging became Eames’ new way to escape, a way to build and grow his personal arsenal to not be who he is. The distance helps him remove himself from the ruins in his mind. It takes a long time to put the pieces back together; the destruction the military caused is vast.

Eames thinks he’s found the last piece of the puzzle. The last click that will finally give him the functionality he wants and needs and craves. He can’t handle panic attacks during a shoot out, or a sudden fear for fire during a job. His reputation as being unpredictable, and quick to cut loose if there is trouble around, precedes him. But this isn’t out of choice.

It’s out of failure, it’s out of fear.

It’s time to give Death a face.

The eight time Death visits him it’s in front of a mirror, in a dream, and Eames is in control.

Eames closes his eyes and feels himself shiver. He reaches for all those times Death has come to him, touched his icy fingers to Eames’ lips but let go at the last second. He focuses on the shape of those fingers, and lets his mind wander around the shadow, the flickers of his mouth and eyes and body that has haunted his natural dreams. Eames feels his body change, his muscles age. He rolls his shoulders experimentally. Feels the strange muscles in his back, the wiry arms and lithe legs. Eames takes a deep breath and opens his eyes.

Brown eyes, dark, gelled-back hair. A narrow pale face, lips in a perpetual frown, soft cheekbones. He looks unimpressed. He looks confident and unintimidated and slightly amused. He looks like Death.

Eames hears something behind him and at once the forge breaks, leaving only Eames in the mirror, his face pulled tight in fear and wonder.

“Mister Eames. We’re long overdue a chat,” someone says from behind him.

Eames twists around and freezes.

A cold smile. A nod in greeting. “My name is Arthur, but you know me as Death.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hoped you enjoyed that! I certainly loved writing it and I have many more ideas. You'll see me around with more of these :)


End file.
